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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28571802">The Lynel of Akkala</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbureh/pseuds/kimbureh'>kimbureh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Legend of Zelda &amp; Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>POV Monster, contains a terrifying perspective on the hero of the wild</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:20:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,643</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28571802</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbureh/pseuds/kimbureh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Calamity is defeated and a Lynel grapples with his newfound mortality.<br/>-<br/>POV Lynel<br/>-<br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Does a Lynel know he is a Lynel?<br/>To him, the Calamity is not destruction, it is life itself.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dark clouds are galloping low through the night sky like an army heralding of blood and tempest, but when the grey battle formation breaks apart, no fiery orb is revealed to rejuvenate its fallen warriors. No, this full moon quietly enfolds the land in it's silver light of cold and death.</p><p>A shiver runs through a shape cowering amidst the ruins on the stormy shores of the Land of Eternal Autumn. With the warmth of the Hearth that used to be as certain as the waxing moon now smothered, no Storm rattles the Castle any longer. There's only stillness of rotting bones shining white in cruel nightly light.</p><p>But the flesh of this one is still warm. His firm hooves still carry him through the hills like rolling thunder, his eyes still sharp enough to shoot the bow, his arm strong to wield his bulky sword with ease. If only the necessity would arise. Still, he knows what he was and what he is. A beast of the Hearth, the most ferocious one in all of the Autumnal Land, perhaps the last one roaming after The Storm died down so many cold, white moons ago. Oh, how much he loved the warmth of the Hearth. How much he loved the sight of the full moon when it was still red and strong. Ever since the quiet came and the cold, he grew to detest clear nights and the sky.</p><p>Waiting for the sun, waiting for the dreadful moon, he exists even as the fire in the night sky and in his soul was smothered long ago. When hunger forces him to leave his stead, no hunt can reignite his spark. Venison, veal, mutton, man; he sees no point in being picky. The lands have been changing, many people of the Royal Creed and other enemies of the Hearth wander the now well trodden paths, weak and loaded with wares they cart to ever growing villages. None of them expect a rare fierce beast proudly claiming their roads in broad daylight, all of them flee like the pathetic beings that they are. Most of them leave behind crates and bags filled with exotic fruits from foreign places so remote the four-legged beast wonders how it took him reaching the end of his eternity to learn about their taste.</p><p>The smell of a peculiar flower and rain somewhere passes by the meadow around the ruins he calls his shelter. Prompted by rustling in the bushes, he perks up. If this ferocious beast is lucky, his next meal delivers itself soon. Patient, unmoving, his ears follow the crip sounds in the dry foliage on the ground. He could get to his front feet and catch a glance of the critter making its very last mistake on this earth, but there's no hurry. No prey has ever made it past his bow and sword and fangs. When a disappointingly tiny rabbit hops into view, he scares it away with a limp stomp of his hoof.</p><p>Those pointless beings, he does not understand them. No matter if they are animals, or those of the Creed of the royal family, or the people of the Fishlike, or Birdlike, or Stonelike, or the Red Haired Warriors, or any other bipedal enemy of the Hearth. These beings were not created for a reason, like he was. They simply exist, no, they drop in and out of existence. Struggling so hard to stay alive until they inevitably perish. In the centuries roaming this patch of land, he bested countless champions searching for adventure and finding demise instead. Especially the bodies of the people of the Creed are so fragile they require drapings in order to not die from exposure to the elements, lacking the thick hide of a Stonelike, the quick reflexes of a Fishlike, let alone the ability to soar into the sky as a Birdlike. None of them possesses magic like he does, all of them remain incapable of harnessing the fire.</p><p>The western sky, where the reassuring presence of his Hearth used to take hold of the castle and the world, now only offers the golden evening sun, wonderous and awful, in this land of eternal autumn. Eternity was promised also to him, a place in an unchanging world, instead the eternal autumn turns to end, slow and agonizing.</p><p>A distant thunder is rolling when the wind carries a scent of ancient flowers and another sound behind a fallen pillar. A lazy eyelid lifts to watch the foolish rabbit reappear, but instead a head of blond hair and bright blue eyes are peeking from behind the ruins, quickly retreat back to hiding. The beast sorts his four feet and comes to rise, the sword for harvesting the fool at the ready, he stands and stares and waits. He is not going anywhere, and neither is his prey. No possible escape route allowing them to remain obscured. The blond head emerges again. One of the Creed, it seems, with its puny stature draped in a blue tunic bare of any armor, weapon still sheathed on its back. Pathetic, he thinks, and lunges forward to cut the blond head clean off its shoulders when the air is kicked out of his lungs and his motions freeze in place. His breath and movement returns quickly, but when his sword is speeding for the lethal blow, the one of the Creed has withdrawn into the grove, a grove that won't be there much longer, a grove that burns down oh so swiftly once the beast exhales his fiery odem, exposing the worm of the Creed as it squirms at the heat of the flames. This time no magic stops the path of his sword, he cuts the worm in half, should cut it in half, cuts into nothing in front of him, it vanished, up up in the air soars the one of the Creed as if the wings of a Birdlike were carrying it high into the sky only to crash down with its glistening blade. The blow misses, but an electric shock takes away the beast's weapon and dignity, forcing him on his knee. The scrawny worm of the Creed towers over him like a warrior of the Red Haired, watching him twitch as he recovers, in mockery waiting for him to reach his sword again. Shred it, shred the worm to pieces-- A dreadful roar announces powerful strikes with his heavy steel, one two three, the worm bare of any shield incapable of blocking them, should not be able to block them, does not block them, but it's like the beast was thrashing thick skin of a Stonelike instead of a puny one of the Creed. Splinters of metal glisten in the pale light when the blade of the beast shatters as it's breaking through whatever invisible barrier there must have been. Finally, sharp claws rip through flesh and shatter bones, finally, the scent of an extinct flower mixes with the smell of congealing life dripping from his paws as if he captured the red moonlight once again. Before he can mourn his weapon and regain his dignity, for one heartbeat he sees the specter of a Fishlike, small and lithe, just like the one of the Creed, the worm who now gets up from the ground like it had been picking flowers, wounds and clothes both mended, sword raised and white moonlight blazing in its eye.</p><p>---</p><p>It is the scent of rain that wakes him. With his body chilled to the bone, torrential rain flooding the meadow, he jerks up and sees the water around him run clear. Droning rain resounds in his throbbing head. This is not how things should be. He feels beaten, he <i>is</i> beaten, and yet he finds himself alive and unharmed. This is not right. Inferior opponents are supposed to die, why is he still here? He tries to look around, the one of the Creed obviously long gone. Somehow, his head keeps bobbing to the side as if it was off balance. Once he makes it over to his shelter, he wrings out his drenched mane, and-- this is not right. At the top of his proud mane, where two burly horns dominate his forehead, there is one horn, and one stump. Cut off clean.</p><p>The roar echoing through the lands of Eternal Autumn puts every thunder to shame. Even the redness of the blood moon could never restore what was taken from him today. Mutilated, humiliated by a mere mortal of the Creed who left and robbed him again when it took his chance for revenge. When the clouds retreat to the sea, the Beast of the Hearth makes a decision. He won't wait for the sun, or for the moon, ever again. He will use the spark left in his breath and leave. Never before did he realize he can leave his assigned post; he will roam the lands as ancient as him, and he will hunt.</p><p>Hunt the scent of a peculiar flower.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Not far from his territory along the shores, adjoining to sunny plains of the land, lies a forest thick with trees and the scent of mushrooms replacing the solace of the sea breeze. He doesn't hide when he dashes from the undergrowth out in the open field, chasing away a herd of cowardly hooflings until only a single other being remains. The blue tunic reeking of blossoms comes to stand in the tall grass on the far side of the field, weak and meager looking as the night before. Their eyes meet with ease, but oh the satisfaction how the wormling tenses up when the mighty beast begins to trot, shrinking the distance until the worm is forced away from the cover of the woods into the open field.</p><p>This time will be different, this time he knows which magic to expect. Even the lush green grass won't withstand his scorching breath, much less the worm squirming on it, and yet, he finds himself pacing from left to right with indecision, no weapons drawn on either side. A faint salty breeze surges through the meadow, and before the wind is setting, the beast charges ahead, blood and fire at the ready. On all six, his claws dig into the earth hungering for supple meat. The white blade of the Creed glares blinding in the sun, the beast rears up just a hair beyond reach, growls like a thunder waiting to happen and gallops off. At a distance, he comes to a halt, scraping his front hoof, focusing his prey. The one of the Creed sheathes its weapon, but remains attentive, its hand twitching towards the hilt the moment the beast reaches for his bow, letting go again when he reconsiders. This time, it's the tunic's turn to move, under the watchful eye of the beast, it positions itself behind a rock too scanty to serve as cover. Without averting its eyes, it seems to search for something in its pockets. Before its hands reveal what is set atop the rock, the beast's nose tells a tale of sweet and sour.</p><p>---</p><p>From the cover of the night, he watches the goings-on at the ever expanding place where all kinds of two-legged enemies of the Hearth keep their four-legged servants. He can smell the air stiff with sleep, a sole fireplace outside cackling nobody is tendening to. Hapless beings. Two or three fire blasts would suffice to stunt their growth, at least for a little while. A passing cloud reveals the moon and gives away the looming shape. No being is awake to be stricken with due fear, and the beast needs rest as well. His paw seems black in the dim light, red berries stubbornly dying his fur ever since he crushed the stone along with the fruits. Instead of blood, juice covers his paw, along with a mixed scent that won't wash off no matter how hard he tries.</p><p>The next day, he finds the Ancient Flower on the very field in the tall grass, trying for better luck to sneak up on hapless horses. He watches it catch one of splendid coat shining in the sun much like his own proud mane, only smaller and weaker, and overall inferior. When the subjugated being is tied to a tree, the beast approaches through the open field close enough to note the one of Royal Creed came out here without its weapon. In its place, there is a satchel of contents the beast is long aware of. On a tree stump, a wealth of scents and color is poured out before the swordless enemy retreats to his horse that unlike its new master has the good sense to tug on its bind in fear of the ferocious beast.</p><p>This time, he licks his paw like he should have done so yesterday, unseen, far away from the puny, useless one of the Creed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the following days, without fail, the beast finds the Ancient Flower somewhere in his realm. Each day, fruits are placed on a rock or fallen tree for the beast to carry away and eat in solitude. Every day, he finds the wormling do a peculiar action whenever it seems to notice the presence of the beast. The blue tunic would stretch one arm up into the air and move the hand from side to side, as if the beast needed this aiding movement to catch his attention and wasn't following its scent the moment he stepped out of his shelter by the shore. The offerings he now receives are plentiful enough to keep the beast away from the roads, the necessity to go after heavily loaded travellers and their deliciously filled bags disappeared.</p><p>The sun is setting against a golden sky in the West lacking the strength and reassurance the Red Storm exuded when it still presided in the Castle, but the last sun rays of the day warm his coat nonetheless. The enemies of the Hearth have a strange way of turning themselves into servants, he has witnessed so many times; they keep all kinds of critters, tall and tiny, only to care for their every need and get little in return. He has seen them build structures solely for their horses to rest in, has seen them hunt for meat just so they can feed their dogs which then accompany them to hunt for meat again. They keep cats which serve no apparent purpose at all. It must be this willingness to subjugate themselves that made the Red Storm want to conquer and lead these aimless beings to their true destiny in servitude of the Hearth. Surely, they must realize that smothering the Hearth deprived them of ever being granted a purpose in their frail and fickle lifes. Is the wormling satisfying its innate need to serve if not the Hearth, then at least a beast of the Hearth? Without the wisdom of a Storm guiding the mortals neither in past nor present, perhaps the enemies of the Hearth are more misguided than malicious.</p><p>After sundown, the beast steps out of his shelter into the peeking moonlight, heading down to the shores. It used to be his favorite place, his only place, these shores. The past days allowed him to taste more of the Autumn land than he ever had before. Far greater plains inland than they ever seemed from afar; woods much thicker than the sparse shoreside groves; the volcano on the horizon growing in height the further away he left the shores behind him.</p><p>Down at the foot of the familiar cliffs, waves crash in from the slowly waking sea. With every gust of troubled wind, dark clouds holding a promise are steadily approaching. The spray tears under his racing hooves, and the black horizon flickers over the sea. Soon, electricity will fill the air. He dashes up the slope again back to his shelter beneath the ruins when the rain and thunder begins pouring down.</p><p>Not all storms are nurturing like the Hearth used to be. The last storm several days ago left him drenched and robbed on the ground like no other ever had before. Then and there, it should have been his last defeat, but the one scented of extinct flowers did not slay the beast. Instead, life was granted, even if no eternal one.</p><p>The following day, without fail, a hand is flailing in the air to catch the beast's already focused attention before emptying the riches of its satchel on a rock. Unlike the days before, the beast doesn't retreat to solitude for feasting. In some distance, the little blue storm sits relaxed on another stone amidst meadow. For one moment, it closes one eye and keeps the other open while moving the corners of its mouth upward to reveal its puny fangs. It's an odd thing to do with one's face, surely it holds some meaning. Or perhaps the mortal caught himself a brain parasite that makes him twitch. Either way, the beast now is free to find out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sleep used to be different, and dreaming too. After a restless night, the beast wakes to the sun high in the sky, his unbalanced head bobbing to the side. He hungers, but not for fruit.</p><p>A deer in the grove nearby, half left behind to rot, makes him both full and wanting. The shores, the cliffs, the crunch of flint and sand beneath his hooves, even the magnificient sea surrounding the world on its edges, all of it appearing familiar and familial, all of it lacking the warmth it used to hold even on the bleakest of days. Back and forth, he can't commit going inland nor staying by the shore. He has watched cliffs as old as time giving in to the steady gnawing of the sea, plains turn into forests, and in these forests, bones turning into earth. Only him, unchanging. Never would he thought it possible to become part of the decaying world around him.</p><p>The slow evening light is crawling in over the ridges of the tall mountains when, to his surprise, the beast finds the Ancient Flower still out in the fields. Without dwelling longer than needed, he picks only a few pieces from the offering stone and returns to his shelter. Alone in the ruins, he wonders why he hasn't slain the wormling yet, why he even lacks the desire to do so.</p><p>During the night, he watches the ever waning crescent in the sky, tired for rest, tired of dreams as viscuous as tree sap that glue him to a restless sleep, drenching the embers inside of him whenever they enclose him inside their stifling void. His dreams, all of their dreams, used to be filled with the strength and vigor of each other, reassuring voices of multitudes waning and waxing along with the moon.</p><p>The sea is silent when he wakes before dawn. He is hungering, not hungry. His supplies are sparse anyway, only three fruits of different sweetness, more he could not carry.</p><p>Today, he finds the wormling hunched to an industrious little bundle, quite occupied with <i>something</i>. From where he stands, the beast can tell it is neither eating nor grooming, holding a thing in its clawless paws. The beast does not step past the stone, takes what he is given, and rests with patient curiosity further away. When the sun slowly turns golden, the Flower leaves the item on the offering stone. Slowly closing in while keeping a safe distance to the retreating bipedal, there's the smell of deer hide, looking all crumpled on one end where a rope bundles it, soft but sturdy to the touch. Upon tugging the end where the rope closes it, the beast realizes it's a bag. The Hearthless being made a bag. He opens it, then closes it again by pulling on the ropes, it's a simple way to make a container, easy to open and close, then carry it by the strong fiber ropes. Open, close, so smooth as if it always existed for this very purpose. After repeating the motions a couple more times, he notices the Flower watching. Surprised by his own carelessness of dropping his guard, he reflexively extends his claws upon meeting the another's gaze. The material in his hands, sturdy as it may be, rips under his talons. A small disgruntled noise escapes his throat as he examines the tear in the bag, which goes not unnoticed by the bipedal, who extents his hand and takes one step towards the beast. From afar, the beast watches the Flower reworking the bag at the offering stone with swift movements.</p><p>At night, alone among the fallen ruins, the surface of the bag is smooth under his careful paws, feeling the texture of the thread mending the hole he tore. This is the gift the enemies of the Hearth possess. He does not understand to who they owe it for they were not created with all the knowledge that they need. They are forced to make all the things they need for none are given to them. The beast is aware of that, has been for a long time, he has watched them build houses and villiages over and over through the centuries, and yet.</p><p>It never had occured to him that one could make things.</p><p>Creation was the Storm's prerogative. The beast himself, his weapons and gear, every arrow that becomes five when he sends with his bow, everything was made and remade every full moon, until it wasn't.The mortal creeds contain withing themselves a different kind of eternity for they make and remake everything they need.</p><p>Something has to go into this bag, something he could't carry before but now is able to. In a corner of the ruins, cold white moonlight is caught and refracted by his only possession that fits that description.</p><p>The next day out in the fields, he hesitates putting the bag with its precious contents on the offering stone, for it constitutes no offering but rather a request. After short consideration, the beast puts the bundle next to the stone, then shakes his paw in the air in the fashion of the bipedal when it arrives. His action is met with a grimaced face of pulled up corners of the mouth baring puny little teethlets. A smile. He remembers seeing such expressions and many more of the like a century ago when he fought alongside the other creations of the Hearth. Most of them were quarrelsome, fearful weaklings compared to him. He did not understand why the Storm chose to create countless of those bipedal beasts when only so few ferocious beasts like him strode on this earth.</p><p>Several steps away, he gets down into the grass watching the one of the Creed open the bag. When the rope loosens and it peeks inside, its eyebrows move up and large blue eyes grow even larger. Then, it meets the beast's gaze with a furrowed brow, the lip pressed to a thin line.</p><p>The bag slides back into the grass, contents unmended. Within the Hearth, there had never been the necessity for asking in order to be given. It must be a flaw in the Creed's state of being that they have to be encouraged to fulfill their purpose of servitude. After all, that's why they had to be convinced by the Storm with force. With huffs and silly motions he picked up from the bipedals, the beast strives to prevent the worm from leaving without first gifting the repair it was bound to give. It shakes its blond hair as if to emphasize its decision to reject, heading to withdraw from the fields.</p><p>Wormlings, all of them enemy of the Hearth. Always in need to be forced to fulfill their intended role.</p><p>When the beast jumps on his four hooves, it's like the tension of an imminent electric storm runs between him and the puny bipedal. A growl threatens to draw the bow any moment, the opponent just as ready to strike. There should be flames scorching the wormling into a crisp, hooves should trample it to dust, the Storm should lead him on his destined warpath and ravage everything in his path. But the day is calm and the sky is clear of any cloud. Instead of reaching for his bow, the beast clutches the stump on his forehead.</p><p>The night embraces the beast with the nothingness of a new moon. No white light gets cruelly reflected in the shards of his broken sword he empties from the treacherous bag. The people of the Creed are makers and remakers of things, and the beast is hungering.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Near the growing village at the stable, horned fluffy animals are kept within fences by the bipeds. Hardly a hunt for a ferocious beast. Further inland, he finds one of the climbing goats that are much more common on the rocky foothills than in his usual shore territory.</p><p>The last daylight leads him close to the very plains that had lured him often since the last dreadful moon. But today, his nose tells him from afar something's amiss. It is not here, it hasn't been here all day, and yet the stone is filled with plenty. Not even the sweetest smell of fruit can mask the absence of the Flower's scent. The gifts with unknown giver remain untaken on the stone.</p><p>The morning light is still hiding behind the sea's horizon, when the beast finds cover in the woods along the path the Flower uses to take each day. Together with the first rays of the sun arrives a figure in the fields. A figure that reeks a lot like fear and looks a little like a beast. A beast like himself. Despite pattering on just two feet, the unknown beast has a face framed in a mane just as his, a mouth full of fierce fangs just as his, and on the forehead two curled horns almost just as his. Skittish like a herd of horses, the weird beast walks past the woods without any visible sense of awareness about being hunted. The biped's bag carries smells from exotic groves that scatter on the ground the moment it finds itself on the field bare of any cover, a true beast on its heel. The prey cowers frozen in place when the beast trots onward. Of course this is no beast like himself. Only enemies of the Hearth reek of deer hide clad in dread like this. No longer can this beast be fooled, clearly he see the stitches on the face-covering. This mask is made, not given. Deep in the fake mane, he catches a whiff of extinct Flowers.</p><p>The people of the Creed keep surprising him. Not this specific one though, for it bolts away on stumbling feet the moment the beast settles in the meadow to contemplate. Such made coverings might prevent any beast from attacking not because he is fooled into believing it was one of them, but because of confusion and curiosity, for most beasts of the Hearth sure aren't aware their enemies can make and wear stolen faces. Idly, he picks a fallen fruit and tastes its once more surprising sweetness, watching the pathetic false beast toppling in the distance.</p><p>But the beast is hungering, and so his four hooves carry him to a swift pursuit. Face first, the prey falls into the grass before the beast can even swipe at it, the mask sliding from its head. The stench of fear grows truly repugnant when the beast bows down to examine the coward drenched in different kinds of wetness. Water in its eyes must blur its vision, frantic sobbing replaces breathing. The beast has witnessed such pathetic views before. Sometimes, on the battlefield, warriors of the Creed would be separated from the rest, bare of any protection or weapon, they would look and smell like this right before he ended their one and only mortal life.</p><p>No beast of the Hearth ever shed a tear, no fluids are excreted from their noses.</p><p>This time, he lets the coward crawl away for good. It would be no appropriate target neither for his fangs nor fire. Following his inner urge, he chases through the plains in search of herds to scare, then darts through the undergrowth of the forest when he finds no critter to spook.</p><p>-</p><p>The calm sea is reflecting the morning sun in a smooth mirror, the ruins by the shore catch soft light and draw fading shadows. Nothing announces the peculiar smell and strange look of the intruder appearing out of thin air near the beast's shelter. A blue storm rises and settles before the shape fully materializes. The small figure wears drapings resembling those of the Red Haired Warriors, the lower part of the face hidden under thin fabric, emanating a bright smell of far away sands. In both its hands, a tall blade.</p><p>The beast huffs and growls at the unexpected visitor, jumping on his four feet to bring some distance between them to evaluate the situation with his bow at the ready.</p><p>When the intruder moves to set down its oversized weapon, a whiff of a familiar scent comes welling over. After shaking its hand in the air in an odd manner, there's no doubt it is the very Flower standing before him. It repeats the setting down of the sword once more and the beast realizes, the blue tunic dressed in foreign garments presents the sword on a broken stump of a fallen pillar in lieu of an offering stone. The beast approaches, and the Flower backs off. The blade that afforded two hands from the worm barely fits one paw of the beast. It is a good sword though. The blade is well balanced and sharp, the hilt of gold ornamented with red stones. He takes a few strikes through the air, the Flower's eyes following his every movement from a distance.</p><p>Blood rushes through his ears upon the thought of testing the blade's cut right away. Even though the Flower's face is capable to wiggle brows and pull the mouth into a silly grimace, when the beast meets its gaze, it is barren and cold like stone.</p><p>What would it take for the foreign veil to reveal a face drenched in wetness?</p><p>-</p><p>The next day is as it was. Limb waving, offerings. The Flower seems entirely unfazed by the beast bringing the new weapon. He accepts the offering, even though his intent was misunderstood. It is a worthy gift from someone of the Creed. But it is not <i>his</i> weapon, which remains shattered in a satchel.</p><p>Today, the blue tunic looks like usual. The face unhidden, eyes soft but focused on new workings in its hands. For several days, the worm's deft bald hands are busy until the beast is able to identify its purpose. Padded leather straps attached to some kind of sheath, similar to the one that keeps its own sword on its back. At the offering stone, the beast examines the almost finished gear, only the harness to fasten the sword around his chest needing to be stitched together. He sets the equipment down on the stone again, retreating to a distance for the Flower to pick up the thing and finish its making. Only it doesn't. Instead, it crosses the invisible border at the offering stone they both had respected so far and closes in with a slow but determined pace, moving its hands in peculiar ways. When the wormling stops approaching just out of his reach, it begins to walk around the beast. There's no way though he allows himself to be caught blindsided, and so the beast turns along with the circling tunic. After a few steps, the Flower stops in its tracks and exhales audibly. In some way, it resembles one of the snout-nosed beasts of the Hearth that just got his roasted fish on a stick stolen for the fifth time. It takes the satchel off its back, points at the straps and motions with his hands. Then it points at the ferocious beast in front of him, then at the straps again. Now the motions of his hands make sense. The distance between his hands was small when he pointed at the bag, but it was larger when he pointed at the beast. The harness of the sheath is incomplete because the one who is making it doesn't know the measurements.</p><p>Upon understanding, the beast's tensions release, promptly copied by the one of the Creed. He won't turn his back to him, let alone allow the wormling to touch him with its probably icky sticky naked fingers. But he can permit his flank to be studied a little closer, should the worm be so daring. The beast utilizes the hand wiggle to attract the biped, and rumbles a growl when it gets close enough. For several long moments, the beast can feel eyes sizing up his body, until he gets bored, or annoyed, or maybe the tension returns. The stomps his hoof and the wormling steps away with his face drawn into a smiling expression.</p><p>-</p><p>Thin clouds are hanging high in the nightly sky above the sea. Soon, the beast will rest, but first he reviews the handiwork of the biped. The finished harness turned out a little bit loose, but it carries the sword on his back nicely. No need for further adjustments. Finally, the beast's arsenal is complete again, even if it had to be augmented with skills of mortal making.</p><p>That's when the beast notices a simple thing he should have noticed long ago. The sword he is now wielding has been made. It was given to him, but since he cannot sense the spark of the Hearth within, some mortal had to do its making. He knows the origins of wood and leather and even crystals, but never has he seen a tree made of robust metal, nor any critter shining in such fashion, only tiny specks in the sand that glitter remotely like polished steel, or the sun sparkling on the sea. Maybe the making and remaking of such material requires a skill or magic even the wormling doesn't possess. Maybe the wormling isn't as powerful as he thought he was.</p><p>The clouds are slowly dissipating in the sky, little by little revealing an ever waxing moon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>heya strangers, I could use some words of positivity if u can spare any in this economy</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A light breeze from the sea leads his nose east, to the scents of salt and sand and solace, but no matter how long he trots in his given territory, his eyes wander west towards hills and cliffs and the uncertainty of ever changing lands under the touch of the Hearthless Creeds.</p>
<p>The ruins that are now his shelter were still stones when he was first assigned his post in the land of Eternal Autumn. There is his shield, strong and sturdy and as reliable as the full moon; there is his bow and quiver, swift and apt to end all life in a raining storm of endless arrows; there is the armor and adornment on his arms and torso, and a ring of metal on the ankle of his left hind foot that proudly marks him as a beast of creation. All these are gifts given by the Hearth.</p>
<p>Then, there is the bag of broken shards, easy to carry but hard to bear; there is the foreign sword retained by a sheath of make. These are gifts given by the enemy of the Hearth.</p>
<p>With all of his belongings firmly attached to chest and back, the beast breathes the sea aroma one last time. But before he can follow where his eyes lure him, his nose wins once again as he finds himself picking fragrant food from the offering stone like it was a day as any other since the last dreadful moon. Like so often, the stretched out blue tunic in the grass does not bear any gear nor weapon. When the golden sun begins hiding behind western mountains that might remain out of touch forever, the blue tunic gets up to leave, but stops at the stomp of hoof. Long moments pass before the blue tunic takes another step, only for the beast to halt it in its tracks once more with a simple thud. Neither of them moves, only the shadows between them grow. Bipeds are as curious as they are impatient, even this peculiar Flower poses no exception. The third time it tries to leave, the beast catches its attention by waving his hand the way the Flower does each day. This seems to amuse the biped long enough until its eyes turn grey and the sky turns into a black only pierced by a single light rising high above.</p>
<p>A full moon.</p>
<p>The moment white light floods the meadow, the beast's waving hand grabs the hilt of his foreign sword and charges. Blades of grass shimmer silver as the Flower barely escapes the beast pruning the meadow. No tree nor shrubbery offer safety for they turn to fuel the red flames of the beast. The fiery explosion does not set the worm aflame, but it smashes its tiny shape against the very stone in the middle of the field. Despite the fire all around, the beast can smell the thick redness running from the worm's head. Death will teach the enemy of the Hearth to never face a ferocious beast again without a weapon. With the prey circled by unending fire, the beast aims his arrow that turns to five, when suddenly there is blue light piercing through the scorching red. The Hearthless summons a blue orb of unknown magic that explodes and flings its lifeless body through the blistering flames into the green, where, on the other side, the specter of a fishlike mends his skin and clothes, and wakes the blue storm to hit the beast with unleashed force. Exploding light strikes him, robs the beast of all his senses and freezes both his body and the fiery breath in his lungs. Before he can move again, the swift blue storm springs through the smoke towards him, its feet propped up on the beast's chest, one hand holding onto his single horn, its gaze gleaming as white as the moon. The beast's breath returns and his arms shoot forward to crush the worm who is already long gone, who is balancing on the blackened offering stone amidst the burned grass. Instead of rising his sword, the beast touches his forehead to find one stump, and one horn, mercifully. The moon is full tonight, but it is the enemy that stands after defeat as if they were many instead of one. No warrior of the Hearth ever fled combat, but his hooves carry him backwards.</p>
<p>There's a whistle and then hooves following slow but steady. In ample distance, mounted on their horse, the blue storm stops when the beast stops, walks when the beast walks, draws back just as much as the beast closes in. The beast should roar, chase the silly horse away and shake his pursuer, but whatever those magical explosions had done to him earlier, even without leaving any visible injuries they weaken the beast severely. With every step, the blue storm's gaze keeps gnawing at him when he dares to turn his back on them.</p>
<p>At the foot of the huge fortress of old times, he gives in to his limits. His sole protest against the biped urging his nervous mount closer to the beast is a weak growl that wouldn't scare away any animal with little more sense than a subjugated horse. If the Flower who is many wanted to end him, they had done so long ago. Instead, they hop from their horse to search for something in their pockets. On some kind of small crinkly sheet, they draw strange circles with a piece of charcoal. After slipping the folded piece into a side bag of the seat gear on the horse, they send the animal running with a clap.</p>
<p>The beast snarls as the Flower bends down to kneel close by. There is something hidden in their daft deadly hand, the beast had noticed when they were rummaging through their pockets. The Flower smiles and shows one hand to reveal an apple, but it is their other hand that conceals the unknown object. It's a tiny container made from the same see-through material bipeds like to store in liquids of all kinds. The edges can be sharp when broken, the beast had learned that much in the past when he had been hunting traders for their treats. But he can sense no aggressive intent when a few drops of its contents darken the apple, which is then presented atop of a larger pebble as if it was a tiny offering stone.</p>
<p>Throughout countless millennia, the ferocious beast learned to take what he is given, be the storm red or blue, and so he accepts the offering. The sweet and bitter taste immediately dissolves the strain in his whole body and sparks new strength as if the moon above shone of different color.</p>
<p>Many things about the immortal servant make no sense, but if it seeks to serve, the beast won't deny them their desire. When the beast walks on, the treads behind him merge seamlessly with the echo of his hooves.</p>
<p>The paved roads are old, but not ancient. Not always had his path to war resounded this loud through this pass that hadn't always been there, carved out of rock by the hands of bipeds. Pathways would appear and disappear one war to the next, just like anything that denied the Storm. But regardless whether the road he walks is made or moldered, it no longer leads to war nor warmth of the Hearth.</p>
<p>Behind the beast still follow quiet steps, but that's not why the beast stops to turn around. A clattering sound chases after them, eight hooves, two horses. And one of the Creed. With ease, the Flower turns their back towards the ferocious beast to halt the galopp with hands busy as a beehive. Their gestures are met with sputtered mouth noises from their fellow member of the Creed. Upon their arrival, a pungent smell creeps towards the beast. It's origin is not the animals, even though they can hardly keep their calm in his presence. It's the sickening stench of the other biped who begins to reek even more repugnant as it notices the beast flaring its nostrils in the wind. No doubt, it smells like the coward with the stolen face, which it doesn't wear right now.</p>
<p>The coward gets off its horse and leads it back down the road they came. The other horse, packed with bags and curious belongings, stays with the Flower who calms it with soft noises. With the patience of a ferocious beast, he watches the Flower lead their horse off the road to a snug place between rocks. Their quick hands remove the various items as well as the seat gear from the horse. Using rods and fabric, the Flower builds a simple shelter and sets a padded seating on the ground. Soon, sticks are collected and thicker branches chopped into smaller pieces. Out of what seems to be a tiny crate made from metal, the Flower takes a small fluffy looking thing and a stone that spits sparks upon being hit. The beast's interest grows along with the softly burning flame that is kindled under the Flower's hands before it flickers on its own.</p>
<p>Despite the full moon, there is nothing tense in the way the biped is sitting by the fire with knotted feet, gesturing as if they gently placed something into the grass. The beast stands and observes them stubbornly repeating the motion until the beast decides to bend his four knees and sit in the grass across from flames and Flower. With this, the gestures stop to be replaced by a facial expression the beast remembers to read as a smile. However, the beast's claws reflexively peek from his paws as the biped gets up to stand, and sheathe again as the Flower's motions switch from swift to slow. Out of a leathery tube, the Flower pours water into some kind of wooden shell and offers it to their eagerly drinking horse. Anything the animal can't slobber from the bowl, they humbly take for themselves. What great servants of the Hearth their kind would have made.</p>
<p>When the Flower returns to their seat to open another bag, the beast can't help but flare his nostrils to take in the emerging savor. In a spot within arm's length for each of them, a stone is placed to bear another gift. Tough and stringy to the touch, the salty strips make the beast's mouth water before he tastes them. It's as if a single bite packed the flavor of a whole feast, or more, but unlike any taste he knows. Faintly, it awakes memories of deer, but dry like bark and salty as the sea. Surely, magic of making and remaking must have created this.</p>
<p>Only when the Flower's smile becomes audible does the beast notice his entrancement and growls more to call himself to order than threaten the immortal who had served his meal.</p>
<p>The food, the bags, the shelter, the sharp tools also, clothing and leather gear on the horse, even the warming fire- everything had to be made by Hearthless hands. Tirelessly, those beings are forced to struggle simply for existing. Tirelessness, however, is not a trait the Creedling currently seems to possess. Settled under coverings, they lay down in the simple shelter, and, much to the beast's surprise, close their eyes for sleep.</p>
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